The Thu'um of Old
by Guardian Soul
Summary: He didn't how it happened. One moment, he was hiking in the Jerall Moutains. The next, he woke up in disoriented haze, carted off to be executed in Skyrim. Ganshir Blackfang has been asleep for a VERY long time, how will he fare in this 4th Era world?


The Jerall Moutains. The highest rock formation in Cyrodiil, acted as the borderline between the Tamriel capitol and the nord-nation of Skyrim. As a result of being so close to the blisteringly cold country, The Jerall had inherited its harsh weather, which left little in the way of settling in these mountains. "Too troublesome" said some Breton architects. "Too expensive" said the imperial financiers. However that didn't stop anyone from building monuments on the Jerall.

Ganshir Blackfang, the hero Cyrodiil, and savior of the Oblivion crisis, had such a monument. Around a year after the chaos had ended in the Imperial City, Ganshir was reported missing after taking a hunting trip to the Jerall Mountain. The word spread like wild fire on dwemer oil, that the people's hero was gone. Quickly, a search was issued by the High Chancellor Ocato himself, to any and all guards to keep an eye out for their hero and ally. The civilians helped as well, by splitting into search parties and panning around the nearby woodlands. But no trace could be found of Ganshir Blackfang, it was if the nord had been taken by the Divines (or Daedra).

The search was called off, as it was too much on resources on guards that got too adventurous, after five months. But around a month later, a rather peculiar discovery was made on the Skyrim-Cyrodiil border. A statue, made out of pure obsidian, stat in a throne. The traveling merchants were baffled, and brought the news before the council. It was quickly discovered that the Statue was of the Hero of Cyrodiil, do to the patterns of the armor the statue was wearing. But the face, however, could not be identified. But most concluded that this statue was of their beloved hero. Since then, people from all over Tamerial visited the monument of The Hero of Cyrodiil, often leaving wreathes or food offerings. But the question still hung in the air like the scent of horse dung; what happened to Ganshir Blackfang?

*200 years later*

It was now 30 years since the end of the Great War and the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. The practice of Talos was now outlawed, civil war was in full-swing within Skyrim and the Empire was under pressure from the Aldmeri Dominion. In this time of conflict and bloodshed, many forgot about the statue of the Her. It remained there, untouched by time, just the Hero in his armor, sitting there in eternal contemplation; no one able to read his faceless expression.

*Under the Starry Night*

The stars shined down, their light touching the earth gently. The black statue appeared to glow in the starlight. Snow was pecked all over the statue, as it had been for two centuries. Any sane person taking in the sight would have probably been driven mad by the suffocating silence. But no one was around. The war had made this road unused and the native critters were in their state of annual of hibernation.

*Crack*

A small cracked appeared on the face of the statue. Then it lengthened and streaked down the torso, then the arms and finally; the legs. The obsidian shards and pebbles shed off like sand to reveal a man. He was slumped over in the ancient throne, clad in rags. Slowly, the man, or nord as it was apparent the male had nordish ancestry, stood up on wobble knees. Ever- so-slowly, he began to trudge off the stone platform and the snow laden road.

Where was he? He would have asked himself. But as of now, he couldn't quite think of anything but to keep on walking north. It was like an instinct, or like something was calling him. Either way, he limped on. After about an hour of senseless walking, the nord had come to the border between Cyrodiil and Skyrim. The nord paid no attention to this and simply kept moving north.

Another hour later, the nord finally reached a road surrounded by short cliffs. Had he been fully awake, Ganshir Blackfang would noticed the solider creeping up behind him, poised to knock him out. As well as the many archers hiding in the shadows. But alas, the solider clubbed him with the butt of his sword knocking the confused and weary hero Cyrodiil out. Ganshir's vision went black.

*Scene Break (Helgen)*

Ganshir woke slowly, mind clear, his vision blurry before coming into focus. He looked around where was. The nord was sitting in a horse drawn carriage, driven by man in brown leather armor. In front of was another nord like him, with matted blond hair and a muscular frame that was common among nordish men. The blond nord was looking the forward, towards the direction they were moving in, a concerned adorning his face. It was then that Ganshir noticed both his and blond nord's hands were bound in leather bindings. Now his curiosity flared, making him fidget.

The blond nord turned back to him, noticing that he had regained consciousness. "Oh you're awake! I see got captured like us. Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same with thief over there." The blond nord said in a thick, accented voice. Ganshir had heard nords talk in that same accent back in Cyrodiil, but it was usually watered down after years of being in the capitol of Tamriel.

"Damn you Stormcloaks! Empire was nice and lazy, then you come along with your "rebellion" and ruin the piece, If they hadn't been looking for you, I could have stolen that hoarse and be halfway to Hammerfell." Said a voice to the right. It was then that Ganshir noticed that there were other occupants among the wagon. The one who cusrsed the blond nord, was a black haired Imperial dressed in rags similar to Ganshir's. The horse thief looked at him with beaten, black eyes. "You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's those damned Stormcloaks, the Empire wants." The blond haired nord simply glared, "were all brothers and sister in binds now thief"

"Shut up back their!" said an annoyed Imperial solider, holding the rains of the horse pulling the carriage.

The Imperial then looked at a man beside Ganshir, sitting in the far corner of the carriage, where he would not be so easily noticed. "What's wrong with him?" he asked stupidly

"Watch your tongue! That's Ulfric Stormcloak! True High King of Skyrim!" Skyrim? So that's where he was and it also explained the presence chilling fog and evergreen trees. High King? Well, the man Ulfric was dressed in an elegant fur coat, which was worn only by nobles.

The thief's eyes widened when he heard the name. "What? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion." Then the Imperial realized something. "Wait if they captured you…oh gods, where are they taking us?" the Imperial was in a panic now.

While Ganshir didn't know quite exactly was going on, he did know one thing. They were being sentenced to death. In the Empire, the worse possible crime anyone could commit was the act of rebellion. The punishment was immediate death. But it didn't make any sense. He was the Hero of Cyrodiil, someone whose deed was known throughout Tamriel, and these guards should have recognized him. But they didn't and through him in with these prisoners to the chopping block line. There was something wrong here. These leather clad Imperial soldiers weren't dressed like the full- iron suit wearing warriors he knew. Had he been a coma for an extended amount of time? Had been subjected to the miasma of Vaermina? Or was this another deities doing? He had contacted the daedric lord before, so the miasma would have made sense, because it put the exposed into a deep sleep and slowed down the aging process. But a side effect was the insanity inflicted on long-term users. The Empire had changed enough to not remember him and change their standard uniform. But he was still was sane.

While Ganshir was busy pondering the possibilities, he didn't come back to reality until they had finally rode into a small town laden with soldiers. "General Tulius, the Military Governor." The blond nord spat with distaste. "And the Thalmor are with him! I'll bet they had a hand in this." He finished, referring the elvin armor wearing elves that stood amongst the ranks of the Imperials. "This is Helgen." The blond nord realized, his eyes misty with nostalgia. "I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with the cranberries mixed in". wagon continued to make its way through Helgen, before stopping near a tower in the center of Helgen.

"Why are we stopping?" the Imperial asked, but he already knew the answer. "Why do you think? End of the line." The blond nord answered ominously. And he was right. Ganshir could see that near the tower was a priest in brown robes and the dreaded executioner, in full costume.

"NO! We're not rebels!" pleaded the Imperial

"Face your death with some courage, thief." The blond nord said melancholically. The prisoners filed out of the wagons single file, in front of Imperials officers with ledgers and quills; that meant lists. Damn Imperials.

"The Empire sure loves their damn lists". Ganshir was now in line with the rest of the prisoners as their names were called out. From the corner of his eye, he could see a larger wagon holding a bigger amount of Stormcloak soldiers.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm" called the nord Imperial soldier with list. "It has been an honor, Ulfric Stormcloak!" the blond called out as Ulfric walked up to where everyone else was waiting to be decapitated. "Ralof of Riverwood." The blond nord who had been so talkative during the trip made his way towards the block. "Lokir of Rorikstead" Lokir, the ebony haired Imperial stuttered with pleas before quickly trying to run away, only to be downed by the nearby archers.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the Imperial Captain challenged to the prisoners. Though, Ganshir got the feeling that she was challenging himself. "You there, Nord, step forward." The guard with the list ordered.

Gandhi was now standing at attention in front of the two soldiers. The one with the book looked confused. "You, I don't recognize you. What's your name?" Ah, the moment of truth. Ganshir could have told these ruthless guards his real name, but he doubted they do so much as just laugh in his face. No, best not he use his real name, lest he face humiliation or unwanted attention. "Faron" he said simply.

The guard gave him an apologetic look, "you came home at a bad time kinsman. At least you'll die hear in Skyrim." Die? Oh no, he wasn't going to die, not like this. If that one honorable solider and that bloodthirsty- bitch of a Captain thought he was going to die like this? They had another thing comin'.

Ganshir, or Faron, joined the rest of the to-be executed. The aforementioned General Tullius was facing Ulfric, babbling about putting Ulfric down like a mad dog, and restoring the "peace". Faron didn't really care; he was too busy focusing on the chopping-block. He could the warmth spreading through his body as he recharged his magicka reserves. Despite being a nord warrior, Faron was incredibly deft magician, especially when it came to the School of Destruction. He could swing a sword as well as the next guy as well, but that next "guy" would have to be Gaiden Shinji himself. The only time Ganshir, _Faron!,_ broke his concentration was when he heard a throaty roar echo from the mountains. Everyone simply dismissed it as nothing.

The Captain/bitch ordered him to step up to the chopping block. Already, he warding his neck with a potent shield spell that would shatter the executioners axe; providing an ample distraction. A frustrated and irate Stormcloak solider had interrupted the priest of Arkay's sermon and was lying decapitated; his head still in the basket. Faron kneeled down and placed his head on the wooden block and gazed up at the masked executioner. "You're in for a real surprise, milk-drinker" he muttered inaudibly as the executioner raised his axe.

The weapon didn't event raise over his shoulders before a dragon landed on the tower behind the Executioner, its blood curdling roar causing all oblivion to break; including his executioner stumbling away. What happened next was a blur. Faron was knocked to the ground which made his vision his hazy. He laid there for what seemed like an eternity before someone came up to him and helped him off the ground and led him to helter in the tower. "Come on! The gods have given us another chance!" Ralof said as they ducked into the tower.

"Ulfric Stormcloak! Was that a dragon? I thought they were legends!"

The rebel leader looked equally confused "legends don't burn down villages!"

Shaking his head, Ralof beckoned Faron up the stairs. Almost as soon as they reached the first platform, Faron grabbed and stopped Ralof by his shoulder, his instincts telling him danger was near. Almost immediately, the wall on the platform exploded, killing am unfortunate solider. The dragons' enormous head peered through the opening, before unleashing flames into the room. The dragon left after it finished scorching the tower. Ralof starred at his new friend in a mixture of awe and relief.

Not wasting any time on how they both just died **again**, they stumbled up to the hole in the wall. They couldn't see the rest of Helgen very well, but the inn below had been scorched and was missing a section of its roof.

"Hurry, jump!" ordered Ralof. Faron didn't need to be told twice. Quickly, he leaped into the roof opening and spun into a roll on impact. Unfazed by the high fall, the black haired nord rushed out of the ruined inn, not bothering to look back to see if his companion was following him or not. Up ahead he saw an old man with a weeping child in his arms, likely for his parent's deaths. With them was the solider from before, the one who apologized for Faron's apparent misfortune.

"Go, I'll take care of the boy!" a nod "God's be with you Hadvar!"

Hadvar turned to see the Faron standing there. "You're that prisoner from before! Follow me if you want to survive!" then he charged down the trail behind the now ruined keep tower. Faron followed suite, ignoring the Imperial Battlemages that had come out of the barracks and were now throwing fireballs at the black monstrosity.

The two nords made their way down the path before stopping taking cover, from the dragon that had landed on the wall on the left. "Hold on" Hadvar warned, raising his hand. "Go!" he shouted. They both dashed away from their hiding spot, towards a large stone building that, Faron assumed, was the keep of Helgen. Before they could make it any further, however, they were stopped by a Stormcloak solider.

"Ralof!" Hadvar spat with loathing, obviously he knew Ralof personally. The blond nord had an iron war axe and looked like he knew how to use it.

"Hadvar!" Ralof scowled, returning the gesture. Obviously there was quite a past between these two, Faron observed as he stood, flanking Hadvars right.

The two had a little stare-down for about ten seconds before the Imperial solider nord broke the silence, excluding all the chaos and hell going on around them, "Out of the way, traitor! I don't have time to deal with you!"

"We're escaping Hadvar! You're not stopping us this time!" Ralof returned, grip tightening on his axe.

"Fine then! I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

Ralof turned towards the keep door "You there, this way!" before rushing towards the door, mimicking what Faron had done after jumping off the tower; not looking back.

The nord in question was aware that he now had a choice; he could follow Ralof and likely join the Stormcloaks and also likely make enemies of the Imperial Army. Or he could follow Hadvar and vice-versa.

So many choices, but which to choose?


End file.
